Dark Fate
by GregHayes
Summary: A young mercenary finds himself chosen by destiny to defeat a great evil, but fate is not always as benevolent as it seems.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Dungeons and Dragons belong to Wizards of the Coast. Everything else is mine.

**Prologue**

The docks of Varas were a calming place in the evening. The sun was setting over the ocean waves to the west, and the rowdiest of the sailors had already drunk themselves into unconsciousness. The steady creaking of the merchant ships drifting in the harbor, the distant sounds of people going about their business, and even the cries of the seagulls seemed to transform the Gateway to the North into a serene grove.

Gananir du'Varas felt the rays of the setting sun on his face and brushed a strand of black hair away from his green eyes. The quiet twelve-year-old boy had had a long day, studying under his foster father, and he was glad to finally have some rest, dangling his legs off the end of the dock in the cold water.

"Hey, Gan!"

Gananir looked over his shoulder in response to the voice. A brown-haired boy, in a coat far too big for him, was running down the dock toward him – his twin brother, Naminar.

"Nam! What are you doing here? I thought you'd decided to show Denera around father's study."

Naminar blushed.

"We got caught," he stammered, "Father sent her home, then sent me to tell you it's going to be sundown soon. He wants us both back at the house by then."

Gananir looked back out at the setting sun. He could just make out a ship silhouetted against it, on the distant horizon. While he would've liked to get a better look at it, he didn't have the time. He swung his legs back on to the dock and climbed to his feet.

"Come on," he said, "let's go."

As the two boys left the dock to return to their home, the ship continued its approach. After a short time, it was joined by another.

* * *

Storm clouds began to gather.

Varas's marketplace was normally a crowded place, but at this late hour most of the shoppers and shopkeepers had already returned to their homes. That made the cloaked figure making his way down the street all the more suspicious. His fair Leston features – the blond hair falling in long locks to his shoulders, and the bright blue eyes that were almost invisible in the evening light – made him even more conspicuous. It was unusual for a citizen of the Garantanian Empire to venture so far north, especially one of such obvious high station.

Everything about him spoke of power and wealth – the beautiful craftsmanship of his blue doublet, the stitching of the silver Imperial Dragon on his cloak, and most of all, the glimmering silver side-sword at his belt, so finely worked, and so lovingly cared for, that it almost seemed to glow in the dying light.

The Imperial stopped in front of a squat stone tower, built into the city's inner wall. There were two soldiers guarding the doorway, wearing the blue and green livery of the Sciraen Alliance on their tabards. One of them moved to intercept the Imperial as he approached.

"Halt!" the guard shouted, "Who goes there?"

"A friend of Sir du'Tylen," the Imperial replied.

The two guards looked at each other.

"You expect us to believe you?" the second guard asked.

"No, not really," the Imperial said, "but I do have to speak with him. If you want to take my weapon, I won't stop you."

He held up the sword, hilt first. The guard grabbed it and ripped it from his hands.

"Come along, Imperial. We'll soon see if you're who you say you are."

The guards opened the door. Before stepping inside, the Imperial paused and looked into the heavens. Dark clouds were waiting overhead.

"Looks like rain," he observed, "I see our enemy has a sense of humor."

He adjusted his cloak, and stepped inside.

* * *

Aranir du'Teveren looked over the flat of the two-handed sword. It was perfect. Finally.

He lifted up his master's claymore and lay it up against the wall of the armory, where it usually stood, and smiled. This was an important day, after all. After years of service as a page, he had finally been made squire to Sir Carolan du'Tylen himself. He would finally be able to carry a weapon of his own, to serve beside his master on the battlefield, to be the Will of Salvai.

"Sir du'Tylen!"

Aranir stopped. He recognized the voice – Sergeant Alonar du'Tyliran, one of the guards posted on the doors to the garrison. The call had come from the front hall. He put his ear up against the door to listen.

There were heavy footfalls – Sir du'Tylen's heavy boots as he entered the hall.

"What is it, sergeant?"

"There's a Garantanian here to see you, my lord," du'Tyliran said, "he says he's a friend of yours."

Several boots shuffled on the floor. There was a brief pause.

"Sir?" du'Tyliran asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Hello, Car," said a new voice, this one carrying the unmistakable accent of someone from the Imperial heartland.

"Sergeant, private, leave us," Sir du'Tylen ordered.

"But sir…"

"I said _leave_, sergeant."

"Yes, sir."

More shuffling. The soldiers had returned to their posts.

"You might want to deal with your squire as well, Car," the Imperial said, "he's best listening at the door to the armory."

Aranir panicked. He quickly scuffled away from the door, trying to find a hiding place. He didn't get far – the door was flung open, and Sir du'Tylen looked down on him. His elaborately crafted steel plate mail, the holy symbol of Salvai marked out in lapis lazuli on his chest, made him seem even more imposing.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't think…"

"Oh, please, Car. He didn't do anything wrong. Besides, we have more pressing concerns than an eavesdropping apprentice."

Sir du'Tylen sighed and turned around.

"What _is_ it, Kell? What are you doing here? What's going on?"

"Deos has betrayed us."

* * *

Gananir opened the door to the small house on the north edge of Varas. It was a deceptively simple one-story cottage, hardly the type of home with which wizards were typically associated 

"Ya! Ha!"

Behind him, Nam came walking up the steps, thrusting and twisting with a long stick as if it was a sword.

"Thrust! Parry! Counterthrust!"

Gananir sighed and opened the door to the hall.

"Grow up, will you?"

Naminar responded by sticking his tongue out.

"Hey," he said, "just because I don't like being stuck in a musty old room filled with books doesn't mean I…"

"Boys!"

Gananir and Naminar both turned to face the hall. An older man in a dusty green robe, with graying dark brown hair and a thick beard, was standing in front of them. They knew he was, of course – their foster father, Renan du'Tylen.

"Oh, thank Zarath you're alright," their father said, "come, we have to leave immediately."

The heavens opened up, and it began to rain.

* * *

The rain beat against the hood of Kell Detevenn's cloak as he walked along the battlements of Varas's Sea Wall, Sir du'Tylen at his side. His old friend's new squire was trailing just behind them, clutching the hilt of the short sword at his waist tightly with both hands. It was a narrow, crowded walkway, filled with the cannon crews preparing for the coming attack.

"How many?" du'Tylen asked.

"At least five hundred Zyrian marines," Kell replied, "With naval support."

"Salvai's blood! Our forces can't hope to match that."

Kell nodded.

"Our only real chance is to hope that Renan manages to get the boys out of here safely on their own. I'm… sorry."

"I just don't understand," du'Tylen said, "why would Deos _do_ this? Siding with Karas… it goes against his Oath, his goddess, against everything he stands for! It doesn't make any sense!"

He slammed his gauntleted hands down on the parapet.

"It's not important," Kell said, "we have to buy time for the citizens to evacuate and for Renan to get the boys to safety. They're the only ones who meet the demands of the Prophecies."

du'Tylen shook his head, then looked up at the horizon. The ships were visible now – only pirates and the Zyrian Republic raised black sails, and no pirate had ever had so many ships.

"Damn it, Deos," he muttered, "why are you _doing_ this?"

* * *

Lord Commander Deos Nexar cut a striking figure in the midst of the storm, his wild, ragged red hair blowing in the raging wind, his ice blue eyes seeming to flash in the darkness, his elven features sharp and slight. His breathing was in time with the staccato beat of the rain against his ebon plate mail armor.

He was filled with many conflicting emotions as he surveyed the hundred elven soldiers assembled on the deck of the _Lethal Grace_ – sadness at what he had to do, disappointment that the plan had failed, but most of all, apprehension. Whatever happened here to night, history would be irrevocably altered. It seemed that no matter what he did, no matter where he turned, the end would come.

At least this way there might be survivors.

He didn't let his apprehension show on his face. Instead, he raised his Hunter's Axe – a gift from Mother Miranna herself – and shouted into the heavens,

"Open fire!"

The ship was shaken to its foundations as the forward cannon opened up behind him. The explosion was echoed as the other ships opened fire. The roar of cannon fire rose to rival that of the storm.

"Soldiers of the Republic!"

The marines stood ready, attentive.

"Behold, the Sciraen Alliance, a place of darkness and deceit! Not only have they aligned themselves with the heretics of the Garantanian Empire and the taintbloods of the Confederation, but they have harbored an evil beyond even these. For there, upon the horizon, lies the last refuge of the Dark Ones upon Elysion!"

The thunder and cannon fire seemed to punctuate his cries. A plume of water rose up from the seas as a Sciraen cannonball struck the surface. Deos ignored the spray of water on his face and raised his axe into the air once more.

"Tonight we strike a mighty blow for Our Lady Miranna! Tonight, we make history!"

* * *

Fires burned from the wreckage of the buildings on the wharf. Kell felt the rain embrace him and fingered his sword. So, this was what it all came down to. The final test had begun. 

The two sides had reached the breach in the Sea Wall almost simultaneously. No sooner had the Sciraen soldiers closed the gap than the Zyrians had rushed to break it.

A tide of black armor swept over the defensive line. Kell was making his attack before the enemy ever reached the Sciraen forces. His sword lashed out and ripped into a Zyrian soldier's chest, piercing the chain mail armor and driving through his heart. With a flick of his arm, Kell brought the sword back into the open, then swung it around to catch another Zyrian in the neck.

He worked back through the advancing tide, the tip of his blade leading his charge. If he could find Deos, if he could _stop_ him…

"Kell!"

Kell stopped. So, the traitor had finally shown himself.

"Deos."

The elf slowly approached the knight, the soldiers parting around them in silent acknowledgement of their honorable duel.

"Why are you doing this, Deos?" Kell shouted, "What possible reason could you have to…"

"I might as well explain night to the sun!" Deos spat back, "Prepare to die, human!"

Deos came charging, his axe raised over his head for the strike. Kell raised his sword to block, then swung it around and brought the tip of the blade back in for a counterattack. Deos wasn't fast enough to block the strike, but it deflected off the surface of his heavy plate armor.

The elf took a step back to make room for his next swing, then came in hard, ramming the blade of his axe past Kell's guard. The Leston dived out of the way and rolled up to the elf's side, cutting with his side-sword. The sword struck armor again, and this time Deos was ready. He forced Kell off of his body with his shoulders, swinging the axe to catch the swordsman in the chest as he was flung backwards.

The axe swung short, but Kell was thrown to the ground, his sword held above him in a futile attempt to stop a killing blow. The elf had him at his mercy. Deos stood over the prone soldier, axe at the ready.

"You're an old friend, Kell," he said, "so I'll do you one small favor. Flee the city. Get of out of here, now, and I'll let you live."

The swordsman nodded. Deos smiled and swung his axe over his shoulder.

"Good. Get out while you still can, Kell. By night's end, Varas will be gone."

* * *

Aranir clutched his short sword tightly with both hands and struggled to keep up with Sir du'Tylen. The knight was making his way through the tide of Zyrian soldiers like a wolf through a herd of sheep. The squire could barely keep up.

Aranir tripped over the body of a fallen Sciraen, and went crashing into the pavement, his sword flying out of his hands. Damn it, he had to pull himself together.

The squire pushed himself off the ground, trying to ignore the stinging in his arms. Knights didn't notice such minor injuries. He swept his damp hair away from his face, and cast around for his sword.

Nothing.

He scrabbled across the ground, trying to grab the sword before one of the soldiers noticed a young boy crawling around their feet. The spray of the rain off the cobblestones stung his eyes, and the sounds of battle and pain from the crash dulled his concentration. He closed his eyes for an instant. He _had_ to fight through this.

He opened his eyes, still barely able to see. He probed out with his right arm, and _finally_ touched something besides stone. But it wasn't his sword.

It was leather.

Aranir slowly looked up, dreading what he would see. Above him stood a man in black armor, ragged red hair matted to the sides of his face, and a sharp, severe glare.

"Are you one of Deltak's sons?" he asked.

"Deos!"

The man spun on his heel, and Aranir managed to look around behind him. Sir du'Tylen was standing before them, his sword grasped in both hands, ready to bring down on the elven warrior. Aranir slowly backed away.

"Leave Aranir out of this, traitor," the knight said, "he has nothing to do with _any_ of this!"

"Car," the elf said, "I don't want to have to hurt you. Tell me where the boys are."

Sir du'Tylen shook his head.

"Why, so you can bring their broken corpses to Karus?"

The elf spat in disgust.

"Me, work with him? _Nen'portatos_!"

"Spare me the lies, Deos," du'Tylen said, "I'm through listening to you. It's time for you to face justice."

The knight moved first, bringing his sword down. The elf struck the blow aside with his axe, then tore forward, the weapon working its way forward with impressive force as du'Tylen struggle back across the pavement.

Despite his frail elven frame, Deos was easily keeping the upper hand. The elves of Zyr strove for perfection in all things, and Deos had been mastering the art of the warrior for over four hundred years. du'Tylen may have been stronger, but even the righteous strength of Salvai was not enough to defeat the four century lead Deos had on him.

Inevitably, it happened. du'Tylen barely blocked an axe strike in time, and was thrown off balance. Deos took the opening, and struck the knight's chest, the force of his axe crushing the knight's breastplate in on itself. Sir du'Tylen was knocked to the ground by the force of the block, sprawled out over the body of a fallen soldier.

"This is your last chance, Car," the elf said, "tell me where the boys are _now_."

The knight spat, blood spraying from his mouth with the spit. Aranir could barely moved, paralyzed as he was with fear.

"Never," the knight said, "and may Eternity lock you her grip for what you've done!"

"So be it."

The elf raised his axe, and something inside Aranir snapped. He couldn't just stand by and do nothing while this Zyrian demon murdered his master!

He reached out and grabbed the nearest weapon he could find – the fallen spear of a Sciraen soldier. He hastily pulled himself to his feet and, with all the strength he could muster, charged Deos with the spear.

Deos was faster than him. The elf turned on his heel, grabbed the spear, and flung Aranir and his weapon back as if they were nothing more than ants.

"Aranir," du'Tylen croaked, "run! Get out of here!"

Aranir pulled himself back to his feet, using the spear as a crutch. What had just…

"Go! Now! Or by Salvai, I'll..."

The rest of du'Tylen's cry was lost as he coughed up a fresh stream of blood. The elven warrior turned towards Aranir.

"Is this your price then, Car?" Deos asked.

"_Run_, you Endless-damned idiot! _Run_!"

Aranir wasn't sure whether it was his master's admonishes or his own fear the caused him to turn and run, but he did, gripping the spear tightly with both hands as fled, and knowing, with every fiber of his being, that he had left his master to die.

* * *

"How much longer is it going to be?" Nam whispered.

"A few hours at the rate we have to deal with your whining," Gananir answered. He loved his brother, he really did, but honestly, Nam could be such an _idiot_ sometimes.

"Both of you, quiet," Renan insisted, "we're here."

The three passed out of the alleyway into a small courtyard, surrounded on three sides by buildings and the forth by the city walls. A small door in the wall no doubt led to a staircase leading up to the ramparts.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Naminar asked.

"There's a secret escape route out of the city here," Renan answered, and made for the door.

He had managed to get it open with someone behind them spoke.

"Ah, _there_ you are."

Gananir and the others slowly turned around. Behind them was one of the enemy soldiers – a big man, in black armor, with pointed ears and ragged red hair.

"Yes, Deos," Renan answered, "here we are."

"You should've come to me, Renan," Deos said, "I didn't enjoy doing what I had to do to Car to get the information out of him."

A look of concern crossed Renan's face.

"What the hell did you do to my brother, traitor?"

Deos shook his head.

"He's dead, Renan. I'm… sorry, I suppose."

"Damn it, Deos, we were friends! We had a plan! How could you let this happen?"

"_Shut up_!" the elf shouted, "You know _nothing_! _Nothing_!"

He charged, his axe raised above his head, ready to cut the wizard down.

Renan was fast in reacting. In one fluid motion, he unclasped the spell book chained to his belt, and opened it to the necessary page, the strange blue glow in his eyes matching that of the runes on the page.

"_Nel sol_!"

Lightning crackled from his fingertips, racing across the courtyard and into the breastplate of the charging warrior. It seemed to arc about his body, then vanished.

"What the…"

Renan didn't have time to finish his exclamation, as Deos's axe made contact. The wizard was cut down within a second.

"Father!" Gananir screamed.

As Renan's body crumpled to the ground, Deos stepped forward, gripping his axe and smiling.

"So," the elf said, "which of the little Dark Ones wants to die first?"

Gananir looked around wildly for a way out. Nam was pressed up against the wall, paralyzed with fear. Father… father was…

There was only one thing to do.

Magic hadn't worked on the big elf, so Gananir used the only weapon available to him – the knife strapped to his belt. He drew it, and, shouting a war cry at the top of his lungs, charged Deos.

The last thing he ever saw was the axe coming up and through his chest.

* * *

Nam wanted to scream, but his lips couldn't move. He wanted to run, but his legs refused to obey. His father and his brother, both cut down before his eyes.

Deos began advanced slowly, an almost maniacal grin spreading across his face. Nam couldn't move, couldn't run, couldn't even _scream_. He was going to die. He _knew_ he was going to die, that there was no way he could escape it, and that made it even worse.

"Deos!"

The elf turned on his heel at the voice, and Nam watched a figure in a cloak step out of the shadows.

"Kell," Deos spat.

"You should've… killed me when… you had the chance…"

The cloaked man was badly injured. He stumbled as he walked, and when he spoke, his sentences were punctuated with coughs of blood.

"Stay out of this, Kell."

"Heh… just like you, Deos… never knowing when you've lost…"

The man raised his sword and pointed toward the door.

"Get out of here, kid."

Nam needed no second urging. He bolted for the door, slammed it open, and sprinted down the stairs beyond.

* * *

Kell held Durandal in both hands, breathing heavily. He didn't even have the strength to hold his own sword correctly, Gods damn it!

Behind Deos, Deltak's son made a dash down the stairs. Good. Kell didn't want him around when things started getting messy.

He stepped forward, holding his sword out in front of him, and, cautiously, started to circle Deos.

"It's over, Deos."

Deos shook his head and spat.

"Like the hells it is!"

He rushed Kell, axe swinging wildly in the air. Charging straight forward, unable to change course. Kell took the opportunity, darting past Deos's flank toward the door and the stairs.

Kell turned on his heel and took a step back onto the first step as Deos spun around. The elven warrior charged, and Kell was forced back down the steps, frantically parrying Deos's axe.

When Deos took a step to fast, however, Kell saw his opportunity. He rammed his sword forward, straight through the gap between Deos's pauldron and breastplate, and into his shoulder. Kell forced the elf to the ground.

"Why are you doing this, Deos?" Kell demanded.

For the first time that night, Kell saw something that he thought might be regret in his adversary's eyes.

"We were fooled, Kell. Miranna showed me the Final Prophecy, the one those bastards hid from us! We have to…"

"Oh, is that all?"

Almost immediately, Kell regretted what he had said. The look of fear and regret in Deos's eyes turned first to one of confusion, then to bitter realization, and finally to pure, seething anger.

"You _knew_?"

The elf flung his arm forward, the force sending Kell flying down the staircase to the bottom, barely managing to hold onto his sword. Above him, Deos climbed to his feet.

"Of course, it all makes sense now! You were never really on our side, were you? And to think I actually used to _admire_ you! It makes me sick."

"Deos, listen to me, this is far more complicated than…"

"I don't have any more patience for your lies, Kell. Your judgment has come."

He started walking down the stairs. The fury didn't show itself in his movements. His pace was cold, calculating, and methodological – but behind it was the mind of a man who wanted nothing more than to bring about his enemy's painful end.

Kell pulled himself to his feet and out the lower door behind him. The staircase tunnel through the outer wall had originally been a secret escape route – it led to a bridge across the moat on the city's southern wall.

Kell planted his feet firmly on the stones of the bridge, ready to take the charge. His hair whipped at his face in the raging wind, and the rain splashed off the blade of his sword. He allowed himself a brief glance to his rear – the stone staircase leading up to the top of the outer bank, and, at the top…

Oh, no.

"Why are you still here?" Kell shouted at the boy at the top of the outer bank, "I told you to run!"

Oh, this was just great. There was only one way out. The last ditch effort. At least this way the kid would have some time to get away. Ahead of him, Deos took his first steps onto the bridge. It was now or never.

"Hey kid, catch!"

Kell turned around, and threw his sword at the boy.

* * *

Nam had only moments to react. As the sword flew towards him, he dove to the side, trying to desperately to get out of the way. The sword narrowly missed him, the fine edge of the blade drawing a cut across his right cheek. He hit the ground with a thud, and hastily pulled himself to his feet.

The knight was standing in the center of the bridge, holding a small bag and what looked like a matchlock pistol. On the far side of the bridge, the elf was advancing slowly. Nam didn't want to look directly at him. He was scary.

The knight threw the bag into the air.

"Freedom, Unity, Honor…"

The elf charged, axe raised above his head, ready to cut the knight down. The bag started to fall.

"…to these Three Pillars…"

The elf was almost on top of him. The axe began its descent.

"…I now resign my soul."

The bag came down first. Nam heard the click of a matchlock striking a spark, the brief burst of flame as it met the powder in the bag, and the world exploded.

* * *

The force of the blast flung Deos back. It was painful, but not nearly as much as the impact of his body against the stairs. No. He had to pull through. By Miranna's will, he had to…

He opened his eyes, and saw the broken remnants of the bridge and the back of the boy running as far from the city as his legs could take him.

Deos collapsed, and tears mixed with the blood on his face.

* * *

Nam struggled up the hillside, the dirt turned to mud by the rain. He clutched the side-sword in his right hands, using it as a crutch to climb up through the broken terrain.

He was a wreck. The cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding, but the blood was caked against his face. His entire body seemed to be coated in some mix of red and brown. Worst of all, not all of it was his blood. He could still see Gananir, risking his life to defend his brother.

And poor scared little Nam, hanging back and letting Gananir do all the work. It was just like it had always been – Nam played at being a hero, but Gananir was the one who really rose to the occasion. He shouldn't have been the one to die, damn it!

Nam flung himself down on the hilltop. Let the Zyrians kill him! They'd already killed everybody worth saving.

Something sharp poked him in the back. Well, that was quick.

"Hey!"

Nam rolled over. The rain stung his eyes, but he could still see. It wasn't a Zyrian at all. It was a boy, his age, maybe slightly older, holding a long spear.

"You don't look like a Zyrian," the boy said.

"My name's Naminar du'Varas," Nam said, "I'm on your side."

The other boy smiled, lowered his spear, and held out his hand. Nam grabbed it, and the boy pulled him to his feet.

"Aranir du'Teveren."

As the two boys made their way southward across the plains of western Schengor, Nam examined the sword. It was fairly simple as side-swords went, with a cross hilt more suited to an old broadsword than a modern weapon, though the blade was certainly sharper than any broadsword Nam had ever seen. The most intriguing detail, however, was a name, etched into the blade near the hilt.

Durandal. Unbreakable.


	2. Chapter I The Imperial City

Disclaimer: I still don't own Dungeons and Dragons.

**Chapter I – The Imperial City**

"I'm not going to do it."

Jerra Falcion folded her arms in front of her chest. The young half-elven women was certainly a strange sight – the dull red, blue-trimmed robes of a Holy Wanderer and the holy symbol of Leana around her neck were normal enough, but the braid that fell from the top of her head to the center of her back was not.

"Look, Jerra," Aranir said, "I know it's important to you, but Imperials aren't the most tolerant bunch, and if they see that braid…"

"It's symbolic of my connection to Miranna," Jerra retorted, "you wouldn't want to cut _that_, would you?"

Aranir ignored her and tried to go for the braid with his knife. Jerra grabbed his arm.

"Oh, please, Aranir. You're twenty two years old."

"Twenty-_three_."

"Whatever. The point is, you're not a child anymore, so stop acting like one. If you cut my braid, Miranna will be unable to hear my prayers, which means no healing spells. No braid, no healing. Understand?"

"As compelling as your point is," Nam interrupted, "I'm going to have to go with Aranir. If the Imperials see that braid, they're going to tie you to the gallows faster than you can say, 'Mirannist filth.'"

Aranir and Jerra both turned their attention to the two men stepping into the clearing. Their leader was, as always, wearing his long leather coat, with Durandal strapped to his left hip and his spell book chained to his right. Next to him was their party's latest addition, a man wearing the open gray robes of an Imperial Arcanist, his swarthy complexion and dark brown hair marking him as a Hyrian.

"Please," the latter said, his voice laced with sarcasm, "we're a civilized people. I imagine they'd just run you down on the spot."

"Oh, shut up, Tarrian," Aranir said.

"Look," Nam said, "why don't we just have her wear the hood? That'll hide the braid _and_ the ears."

Jerra glared at him.

"Or we could try the gallows thing."

She made a noise of indignance, and pulled up the hood.

"I'm beginning to see why the Zyrians look down on you humans," she muttered, "such disrespect for the edicts of the Mother."

"I'm sure Miranna can take a hood," Nam retorted.

He turned to the others.

"The road ahead looks clear," he said, "we should make it to Garwain within a few hours. Pack up and move out."

Garwain was one of the oldest cities in the Empire, perhaps one of the oldest in the world. Lying astride the Leston River, the city was more than just the capital of the Garantanian Empire – it was its heart and soul.

* * *

A few years ago, the four mercenaries making their way down the River Road to the city would have drawn the attention of the farmers who worked the fertile fields of the Leston River Valley, but now they were just another Guild brigade, perhaps worth watching for a few minutes for the outlandish clothing of the two Northerners, but certainly no longer than that.

They were in sight of the walls now – walls that, according to legend, had been breached only once, by the legendary Arthur Devaron himself, when he retook the city from the Dark Ones almost a thousand years ago.

The West River Gate was shut when they approached, and heavily guarded. Nam counted at ten spearmen, and at least four cannoneers, possibly more. So the rumors were true. There was only one reason the Imperial City would shut its gates, and that was war.

"Halt!" the gate captain shouted, "Who goes there?"

They stopped as the captain and two of the spearmen moved to meet them.

"Captain Naminar du'Varas," Nam said, "Mercenaries' Guild. My companions and I have been serving with the Army of Guardian, and we've come here seeking new work."

"More mercenaries, huh?" the gate captain asked, "Seems like we get more of you lot every day."

"We've heard," Nam said.

"Look," the captain said, "if you're looking for work, try Captain Walken down in the Docks District. I've heard the Watch is stretched mighty thin down there. Between the Rebellion and the Red Midnight, I'm surprised Walken is even still breathing."

"It's that bad?" Aranir asked.

"Yes," Tarrian said, "it _is_ that bad. I told you that Garwain would pay better than the Free Cities."

"Alright, mercenary," the captain interrupted, "you're cleared. Move along."

* * *

The halls of the Imperial Palace were a busy place. Imperial Guardsmen, Directorate bureaucrats, and nobles filled the main halls, and the small army of servants made it almost impossible to move through the side corridors.

One man, however, had no problem moving through the halls. The Guardsmen respected him, the bureaucrats were terrified of him, and the nobility despised him, and he didn't attract the bevy of prospective Empresses that always seemed to surround the Emperor. For General Vinnar Valius, there was no need to wade through the sea of humanity – they parted for him.

Valius entered the conference room with a steady step, and sat down at the long table. The four men waiting for him turned their eyes to him.

"So," Arlan Corwell said, "it seems the great General Valius has finally seen fit to grace us with his presence."

"Quiet, Leston," Valius retorted, "this meeting doesn't concern you, anyway."

"On the contrary, _General_, this meeting concerns us all."

"That's enough," the figure at the head of the table said, and this was a figure that people listened to when it spoke.

Rileth Devaron, the Second of that Name, by the Grace of Leana, King of the Lestons and Emperor of Garantania, unfolded his fingers and raised himself out of his chair.

"As much as I value your input, Arlan, this _is_ Vinnar's jurisdiction."

Corwell scoffed.

"_His_ jurisdiction? _He_'s the one who lost it in the first place!"

"If you're talking about Redmarket," Valius retorted, "the situation is only temporary. My forces are poised to re-take it within the month."

"It isn't just about Redmarket," Avignon Estia said, "it's about the war in East Zyria. Tirmat's been complaining about the lack of forces we've devoted to the Confederate theater."

"We'll start sending more soldiers when the Tirmatian Navy stops sinking our transport ships," Valius retorted, "the Redmarket Gap isn't wide enough to send troops through to the Confederation. Even if we re-take it, the only way to get soldiers to the front at a speed approaching Tirmat's is to have them sail around Tulanus's Horn."

"The Tirmatian Minister of State assures me that those attacks are due to pirate activity," Estia replied.

"I suppose Adonius hijacking the country could count as pirate activity," Redric Lenaius said.

"Adonius?"

"King Maxim's chaplain," Lenaius explained, "some priest of Talius. He's got His Majesty hanging off his every word."

"The point is," the Emperor said, "we're in trouble. Tirmat's breathing down our neck, our forces have been bogged down by the Zyrians, and half the country is up in arms. The Empire's collapsing, the Senators know it, and they're lining up to be the one who picks up the pieces when the whole thing finally falls apart. If we don't do something, the Garantanian Empire will be a thing of the past."

"We need to drive out the Rebellion," Corwell said, "one city at a time, if we have to."

"I suppose we could lock down the city," Valius replied, "but I don't have the manpower to purge the city of rebels."

"Then use mercenaries," the Emperor suggested, "they've been pouring into the city lately anyway."

"I'm not sure about that, sir," Valius said, "mercenaries can't be trusted."

"I'm afraid we don't have much choice."

* * *

The Docks District Watchtower was hard to miss. The four-story tower stood on a stone pier at the end of Tighwin Street, making it resemble a lighthouse on the river.

Nam felt the stones of the South Bank's wharf under his feet as they approached the tower. The smell was strange, but the sights and sounds were too close to home for comfort.

"Let's just get this over with," he said, "Tarrian, you know a place where we can stay?"

"There's a fairly upscale inn at the top of Tighwin Street," Tarrian replied, "the Crown's Scales. Good place for people on a Guild payroll."

"You guys head up and book us in," Nam said, "I'll see about dealing with this Captain Walken."

He pulled the pouch of money from inside and jacket and tossed it to Aranir.

"You got it," the older Northerner said.

As the three started walking up the street, Nam turned to the Watchtower, took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.

The interior was Spartan – the first floor was an empty stone room, save for what appeared to be some kind of reception desk and the stairs to the upper levels. A middle-aged man in an Imperial Watch uniform was sitting at the desk, obviously asleep. The only sounds were the gentle snoring of the Watchman at the desk, and two voices upstairs, one male, one female, unintelligible through the stone, but nevertheless obviously violent.

Nam shook the sleeping Watchman on the shoulder.

"Hey! Anyone home?"

The Watchman groggily opened one eye.

"Eh? What in the flaming Endless…" he said in a heavy Redmarket drawl.

"I was told to speak to Captain Walken. That you?"

The Watchman laughed.

"No, _that_'s Cap'n Walken."

He gestured upward with his thumb. Nam wasn't sure, but he could've sworn someone upstairs had just thrown something.

"I'm Sergeant Dustin Reeve, atcher service."

Nam shook the Watchman's hand. Reeve sank back into his chair and smiled.

"If yer lookin' fer work, ya came to the right place," he said, "Cap'n's up to his neck in rebels an' thieves. He's chewin' out the lieutenant, right now. Ya might want to go and up watch. 's good fun."

"Yeah," Nam said, a little unsure of himself, "I'll do that."

The voices became louder and more coherent as Nam walked up the steps. He began to hear words like, "the Emperor's will," and, "barbarians." It was clear that whoever the participants in this debate were, they were both dead set on their positions.

He finally stepped out onto the fourth floor of the tower, where he caught his first glimpse of the arguers. The man stood behind another desk – far more elaborate than Reeve's – and wore fairly impressive armor, which led Nam to believe that this was Captain Walken. The "lieutenant" was a woman – though with her back turned, Nam couldn't make out much else – wearing a simple cloth uniform.

"Lieutenant," Walken shouted, "I just don't know how to make this anymore clear to you. The Emperor has commanded that we enlist the aid of mercenaries in clearing out the district. That's all there is to it. The Emperor commands, and it is our duty to obey."

"Exactly!" the woman retorted, "I'm not about to give the duty of carrying out those commands to a bunch of dirty, barbaric, violent, materialistic…"

She began to notice Walken's growing, almost sadistic grin.

"There's one standing right behind me, isn't there?"

Walken nodded, still grinning.

The woman turned on her heel, and Nam took several quick mental notes. Hyrio-Leston, most likely from Treyport; about his age; not the most attractive woman he'd ever seen, but definitely worth a place on The List.

"Hi," he offered.

Walken stepped out from behind his desk.

"Captain Tal Walken," he said, "Imperial Watch."

"Captain Naminar du'Varas," Nam replied, "of the Sciraen Swords."

"And this charming young woman here," Walken finished, "is Lieutenant Irlana Ascone, also of the Imperial Watch, though you wouldn't know it from the way she's protested the Emperor's latest edict."

"I just don't see the sense in trusting the future of the Empire to some mercenary!" Irlana protested.

"Hey," Nam said, "I'd trust a mercenary sooner than I'd trust an ideologue. Now, Captain…"

"You're looking for a permanent contract, I assume?" Walken asked.

"Yes. We're new in town and I heard this was a good place to look for work."

Walken laughed.

"Good place to look for work? Son, you're standing in the best damned place in the Empire for a mercenary to look for work. So, what's your pleasure? Charter Knights, Disciples, Red Midnight?"

"Captain, I can't let you do this… to give such responsibility to a…"

"If you don't like it, _Lieutenant_," the Captain snapped, "then _you_ can go with him!"

"_What_?" Nam and Irlana cried in unison.

"Do you honestly think," Irlana said, "that I would ever consent to work with this… this… _barbarian_?"

"Hey, you're no catch yourself," Nam retorted.

"I'll pay you double for taking her off my hands."

"Done. Pleasure doing business with you, captain."

"Likewise. Be here first thing tomorrow for your first assignment."

"What… but… hey!"

Nam didn't pay Irlana any heed as he walked out of the room. Best to get into the habit of ignoring her now.

* * *

Nam lay down on the bed, his sword and spellbook lying on the floor. Like Tarrian had said, the Crown's Scales was a fairly upscale inn, and the beds were definitely worth the price.

"You got us a job?" Aranir asked.

"One you'd like," Nam answered, "combination annoying officer babysitting and errand running for the Imperial Watch."

"Sounds great," Aranir said, with no trace of sarcasm.

"Oh, sure, just perfect!" Nam shouted, "it's just… more work. It doesn't get us any closer to Deos, to finding out what happened at Varas, or to your bloody crusade! What good is it?"

"We'll think of something," Aranir said, "we always do."

"Maybe you're right. I'm just… I'm tired, is all. I'll be thinking clearer in the morning."

* * *

The Merchants' Quarter was a place of contradictions. During the day, it was the busiest place in the city, the place where all those entering through the River Gates got their first taste of Garwain. At night, however, it was almost deserted, save for those who had dealings with the less legitimate denizens.

One such man sat at the end of a long table. It was customary for those who sought the unique services of the Disciples to do so.

While the other men in the room wore cloaks that hid their features, this man needed no such protection. His face _was_ his disguise – so plain, so unremarkable, so ordinary that it was instantly forgotten by all who saw it. It was his greatest weapon.

"I want them dead. All of them."

* * *

And in the old city, a figure lay huddled on the ground, his long black cloak hiding his face and his deep-socketed, orange glowing eyes.

His orders were clear: find Naminar du'Varas, and kill him.


	3. Chapter II Serving the Imperium

Disclaimer: Still don't own Dungeons and Dragons.

**Chapter II – Serving the Imperium**

The Painted Dragon was fairly typical of the inns that dotted the Docks District's wharf. Built right up against the river wall that cut the wharf off from the rest of the city, it was mainly frequented by sailors whose ships were docked in Garwain while sailing up the Leston, but it was also a favorite of the less reputable types that called the Docks District home.

Nam crouched on the ledge at the top of the wall looking down at the tavern. It was difficult to tell from this angle, but when the woman leaving the tavern had turned towards them, she was definitely wearing a holy symbol of Varia.

"That's our contact," he said, "let's go."

He led the way down the stairs to the wharf, the rest of the company trailing behind him, and walked quickly across the wharf towards the woman. It was until he was almost on top of her that he recognized her.

"Lieutenant?" he squeaked.

Irlana Ascone smiled.

"You're perceptive," she said, "for a thug."

"Hey! That's _Captain_ Thug to you!"

The Watchman shook her head.

"Nevermind, mercenary. I assume Walken briefed you on the mission?"

"Not really," Aranir said, "he just told us to meet you down here on the waterfront."

Irlana placed her palm on her forehead and shook her head again.

"Do I really have to do everything myself?"

"Could you?" Tarrian asked, "it would sure make our jobs a lot easier."

"Nice one," Nam said, "two points."

"I try."

Irlana glared at both of them.

"Do I _really_ want to know what that was about?"

"No."

"Then I'll just have to pick up Walken's slack. We've suspected for some time now that this tavern is used as a meeting place by figures high up in the Rebellion's leadership – members of a organization called the Charter Knights."

"The Charter Knights?" Nam said, "You mean the guys running Redmarket?"

He could have sworn he could see steam rising from Irlana's ears.

"The situation in Redmarket is _temporary_, mercenary. General Valius is already ensuring that the Redmarket question is answered swiftly and decisively."

"Yeah," Tarrian said, "you keep telling yourself that."

Irlana ignored him.

"_Anyway_, the Charter Knights apparently favor this tavern as a place for their illegal activities. I've identified our targets already – a Hyrian man and a Leston woman, both wearing rapiers. I count another half-dozen armed men, probably rebel soldiers."

"So," Nam asked, "do you want their bodies with those heads?"

"Very funny, mercenary. Try to take at least one of the knights alive. The rest are fair game."

"Of course, lieutenant. We'll take care of it."

* * *

"You have to understand, Dame Trenners, this isn't just about the Company. With the quarantine in place, we can't move your soldiers in or out of the city, either. If your people don't do something…" 

"I _know_, Speaker," Dame Wera Trenners replied, "but it's not that simple. We don't have enough forces within the city to begin the coup, and we don't have the resources to recruit more. If your employer could see fit to increasing his donations, we could…"

The Speaker pounded his fist on the table.

"Despite what you may think, Dame Trenners, the Company is not made of money. There are limitations to the resources we can provide you, and with this quarantine…"

Trenners was about to interrupt when she heard the door open. Looking over Loranus's shoulder, she could see the five people who entered – the Varist woman from earlier, along with two Northerners, a Holy Wanderer, and an Arcanist. An unusual group.

_Very_ unusual.

"Hold up," she whispered.

The woman marched towards them, the other four on her heels. Trenners had realized there was something unusual about the Varist the first time she had entered the tavern, but she hadn't quite been able to place it. Now, however, it was all too clear.

"Watchmen!"

* * *

Nam had to give the rebel soldiers credit, they had great reaction times. They'd barely made it halfway across the tavern before there was a wall of six rapiers between them and the targets. 

"Speaker, Lady Trenners, get back to base! We'll hold them off!"

The man and woman nodded and made for a door on the far side of the room.

"Out of my way!" Irlana snarled, "I am here on the authority of His Excellency the Emperor. Lower your swords or you will be found in violation of Imperial law."

"Your Emperor has no authority here, Watchman," the lead soldier replied, "leave now, and we'll spare your lives."

"You have to understand…"

"_Nel sokar_!"

The lead soldier was blown off his feet as three bolts of light struck him in the chest. Nam clapped his spell book shut.

"Get 'em."

"Wha… wait… you can't…"

Before the Watchmen could finish, Aranir had ripped forward with his glaive at one of the rebels. The soldier managed to roll to the side and rise up to counterattack, but Aranir raised the blade of his glaive to block.

Nam was about to open his spell book for another spell when two of the rebel soldiers rushed him, rapier points forward. He tossed the spell book aside and ripped Durandal from his belt.

The soldier on the left led the attack, giving Nam the chance to deflect both rapiers away from his body, then side-step between the two charging soldiers and whipping around, bringing the side-sword to point at their backs.

"How the…"

"Had you going there for a second, didn't I?"

He ripped the sword across the lefthand soldier's back. The rebel dropped to the ground, blood pouring out onto the floor.

Nam was about to go for the other soldier when the rebel spun around and drove his rapier forward. Nam was barely able to deflect the blow in time.

"Nam, get clear!"

"Tarrian, no!"

"_Nel sokar_!"

Nam dodged to the side as lighting streaked from Tarrians finger tips. Pain shot through his body as the lighting struck his legs, but the soldier wasn't so lucky. As Nam hit the floor, he saw the blackened and charred corpse of the rebel crumple to the ground.

"_Tarrian_…"

Before the wizard could respond, Nam felt the tap of a rapier blade against his chin

"Alright!" the rebel soldier shouted, "that's enough! All of you get out of here now, or this man dies."

"Hey, look, if it's any help, I'm sorry about Crispy Charcoalson over there. Normally we don't let Tarrian use magic."

The rebel soldier smiled.

"A sense of humor, hm? A shame to see it wiped a… gkk!"

The rebel soldier took a glance at his chest, saw the sword sticking out of it, and reached the obvious conclusion.

"…shit."

With a wrench of her arm, Irlana ripped her rapier free of the soldier's body and into the air. The body fell, and she brought the sword down with a dramatic flash.

Nam slowly raised his hand into the air.

"Heh… heh… thanks…"

Irlana glared at him.

"_What_ in the name of all that is holy were you _thinking_, mercenary?"

"What, about Tarrian? He's an Academy drop-out, 'nuff said."

"No, mercenary," Irlana said, frustration grating at her voice, "I'm _talking_ about how you delivered the one rebel we might have had a chance to negotiate with a magic missile to the _face_."

Nam thrust himself to his feet.

"What the Endless was I supposed to do?"

"Let me talk our way through, instead of causing an avoidable battle and buying our targets time to escape?"

"Well, excuse me, lieutenant," Nam said, "next time, I'll be sure to cower in a corner somewhere and let the bad guys chop you in half!"

He took a step forward, and collapsed to the ground.

"Ugh… Jerra… my legs?"

* * *

"Gods _above_ that feels good," Nam said as the healing magic worked its way up his legs. 

"Just give it a few seconds to set," Jerra said, "and you'll be fine."

"Yeah, sure," Irlana said, "you just won't be getting paid."

"They can't have gone far," Aranir said, "where does that back door go, anyway?"

"Wine cellar," the barkeeper said, "they've probably escaped into the Catacombs."

Nam climbed to his feet and stamped his leg a few times.

"The 'Catacombs?'" Jerra asked.

"Garwain is one of the oldest cities on Elysion," Tarrian explained, "a lot of the city is essentially built on older parts of the city. The underground is riddled with old cellars and ancient alleyways. We call them the Catacombs."

"Oh," Aranir muttered, "that's just great. We're going underground again?"

"I guess so," Nam said, picking up his spell book, "if we hurry, we can still track them down. Aranir, you take point. The Lieutenant and I will watch your back, and Tarrian and Jerra will bring up the rear.

He strode over to the door and leaned against it.

"So, who's up for a dungeon crawl?"


End file.
